Confined
by A Study in Reichenbach Feels
Summary: (Sherlock AU) Sherlock Holmes has been in solitary confinement for over a year. John Watson, a new psychiatrist, is assigned the patient no one wants to treat. After talking with Sherlock, John is fascinated with his viewpoints and is convinced that Sherlock is not crazy: he is a genius. John will stop at nothing in order to get Sherlock out of "crazy town".
1. There's a New Psychiatrist In Town

**I'm really excited about this Sherlock AU! I hope you all like it!**

* * *

John Watson sighed nervously. It was his first day at Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital. John was the new doctor at the psychiatric hospital, the odd one out, again. He had only received his degree a few years ago, so John knew he would be considered inexperienced for many years to come.

Still, he accepted the challenge Broadmoor presented. It was the best known of the three high-security psychiatric hospitals in England, so he was very proud when he got the call offering him the job. He was finally moving up. But that didn't mean it wasn't nerve wrecking.

Was it really a good idea to be employed at the Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum? It wasn't called that anymore, mostly because the general attitude towards psychiatric wards and the word "asylum" had drastically changed over the years. However the previous title rang true, reflecting the kind of people who were being housed there. John had heard the crazy stories.

From criminally insane to raving lunatics, Broadmoor had it all. But that didn't scare John away. He was ecstatic to meet his new patients.

* * *

"Doctor Watson?" a soft voice woke John from his daze.

"Yes?" John replied.

"I've been waiting for you." The woman smiled. Her face was simple, but pretty. Long, sandy brown hair was pulled into a loose ponytail on the left side of her body, dropping down to her stomach. "I'm Molly, the activities director for the West Wing. I'll also be your assistant."

"Nice to meet you," John smiled half-heartedly. Molly looked deep into his eyes, trying to get a read on him, but right as John caught her eyes she quickly turned around.

"Come on, then, I'll show you to your office," Molly said, walking away. John followed her through the bright halls. The walls were lined with white doors that had their room numbers printed on golden plaques. The corridors eerily resembled a prison and its cells. John tried to forget the dreadful comparison he had made, but he couldn't quite shake it.

* * *

"Here we are," Molly said, presenting a small room in the midst of a circular lobby, seemingly at the heart of the building. There were four hallways branching out from this small lobby. A few other offices were around his, but so far it seemed pretty deserted, save the guards here and there.

"Where is everyone?" John asked.

"It's quiet hour. All the activities cease and the patients are required to retreat to their rooms. We have a pretty clear-cut schedule we follow."

"Ah, I see." John peeked into his office. It was barren, the only furniture was a small desk, a chair, and a dusty bookshelf.

"It's not great…" Molly sympathized.

"Oh no, this will do," he smiled, "I can fix it up a little bit."

"Alright, well why don't you get settled in? I'll take you through some of your patients in a minute. If you have a question, I'll be in the office right next to yours," concluded Molly. Then she walked into her office and shut the door. The haunting silence that followed sent chills up John's spine.

* * *

John shut the door to his new-only by title-office. He set his suitcase down on the floor by the desk and looked through the drawers. Luckily, there were some old tissues in the middle drawer. John began wiping the small layer of dust off the desk and bookshelf.

John's mind began to wonder. Would he be able to handle the patients here? Would the cases be too complex for a newer psychiatrist? He was sure there would be doubts about his experience and knowledge, especially amidst the other psychiatrists. John knew he needed to prove his worth. It all depended on the patients to whom he was assigned.

* * *

"You ready?" Molly popped her head in.

"As ready as I'll ever be," John replied, rising to accompany Molly. She handed him a pile of files and a clipboard and they started walking down the West hallway.

Molly began explaining, "Most of your patients will be here in the West wing. There are some violent schizophrenics, criminally insane-for lack of a better word, aggressive patients with social anxiety or delusional disorder, a few psychopaths, and even a sociopath."

John's eyes widened with every rare kind of patient she mentioned. These were all very interesting diagnostics, their states of mental health all severe. Molly noticed the look of shock on John's face.

"Don't worry, most of the patients treat their doctors well. After all, they need your approval if they are going to be released any time soon."

John swallowed the lump in his throat. "Most?"

Molly inhaled. "Doctor Watson…"

"Call me John, please."

"John," Molly grew quiet and motioned for him to come closer, "I shouldn't be the one telling you this, but there is a particular patient…well…" she couldn't seem to get the right words out.

"Well what?"

"He has been in solitary for over a year-" she whispered.

"_What?_" John shrieked, his mouth soon covered by Molly's soft, small hand.

"Shh! Not so loud, we aren't supposed to mention him."

John lowered his voice, but it kept the edge, "I thought we aren't even allowed to put patients in solitary confinement, much less keep them there for a year! Do you know what that can do to a person? What effects it can have-"

"We know," Molly replied. She seemed to have a broken empathy for the patient in solitary. "It is still legal, just rarely practiced anymore. In the UK, only a few patients in tens of thousands get put into confinement. Anyways, my point was that you're his new psychiatrist."

* * *

"Say again?"

"He has gone through five of them in the past six weeks, so the board thought that a fresh psychiatrist would have more of an open mind about him and his…condition. He's very difficult to get along with. He sort of…points out your flaws."

John nodded, "Mhm. Is he the only patient of mine who's in solitary?"

"He's the only patient in the _hospital _in solitary. None of the other psychiatrists wanted him-" Molly cut off her sentence, "Sorry-he always tells me I shouldn't make conversation."

"It's fine," John reassured her. "So, you go to visit him?" Molly's face grew pale. "Isn't it only their doctors who are allowed to see them in soli-"

"Don't tell anyone!" Molly pleaded. "Aside from all the insults and the crazy, he's brilliant, really! I could lose my job…please." She started to cry.

John tried to calm her. "It's okay, Molly. I'll leave it alone. I didn't hear anything."

Color returned to her face. "Really?" she said, wiping away a tear.

"Really. Now what's this patient's name? Can I meet him? I have to start somewhere, right?"

* * *

"Well," Molly said with a sniffle, "Normally the patients have to be alone for the quiet hour, but seeing how he's alone all the time anyways, I suppose it would be okay." She flipped through the files in John's hands. Molly pulled out the one at the bottom and plopped it onto the top of the pile.

"This is him. Read on up. I should go, quiet hour is almost up. The West Wing is going to be playing rugby." She turned to leave.

"Oh, Molly?" John stopped her.

"Yes?"

"Where is he staying?"

"Oh, right, I almost forgot. His confinement chamber is all the way straight down the North Wing, second last door on your right. That's the only chamber in use, so it shouldn't be hard to miss."

"Thank you," John said and opened the file she pointed out to him.

"No problem." Molly walked away.

John turned back and sauntered to the North Wing. He looked at the name on the file. Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**I hope I've interested you! If so, leave a review and follow! c: **

**The beautiful cover photo was by this lovely on deviant art. art/Murderous-Intent-348872215**

**I appreciate the support, lovelies xoxo**


	2. Meeting Sherlock

**Thank you all for your patience. I have actually done some research on psych hospitals and such, so some of the story is fact based. However, some is completely made up. :) **

* * *

The doorway to the solitary confinement cell in use was made of inch thick metal. The inside was split into two halves by sturdy, silver bars. The entire room was white and padded, bright lights buzzed overhead. In the side the patient was in, the only furnishing was a simple bed, if you could call it that, jutting out of the wall.

John stood awestruck in the doorway of Sherlock Holmes' confinement cell. This was a hospital, wasn't it? Why did this room look and feel like a prison?

John spotted his patient's figure sitting with posture atop the bed. He nearly blended in with the padded walls; Sherlock was restrained in a white straitjacket and his face was nearly the same color. John remembered he hadn't been outside in over a year. That and the sheer cruelty of this fate pressed on him made Sherlock's face pale and sickly.

He hadn't moved since John had opened the door with a swipe of his new I.D. badge, so John had only been able to spot Sherlock by his juxtaposing black hair. The curls were damp with the beads of sweat perspiring from his forehead.

* * *

"Hello, I'm Dr. Watson." John introduced himself to his new patient. "I'll be your new psychiatrist."

Sherlock didn't respond. His greyish blue eyes stared widely behind John, and as John looked where Sherlock seemed to be looking, there was nothing. Only the hallway he had come from. John looked back at Sherlock, his eyes sympathetic. Mr. Holmes was, no doubt, longing for stimuli, as he very well should be. John hated the entire concept of solitary confinement.

John closed the door behind him and sat in the one chair on his side of the room. John looked at the diagnosis papers within the thick file on his lap. There were loads of previous psychologist's notes on, well, everything. Ranging from 'He's crazy, keep him in here' to 'Run for your life', the unprofessional doodles decorated the file. It looked like the previous doctors had been driven half mad just talking with him.

John noted the diagnosis' the others had given him. Psychopathic, criminally insane, various delusional disorders, schizophrenic, sociopathic; it seemed to John that there was either a whole lot wrong with Sherlock Holmes, or the doctors before him had no idea what the problem was. John sighed quietly and dropped the folder to the ground.

"How are you, Mr. Holmes?" John started off with the most generic and traditional question ever asked in a psychiatric hospital. Sherlock finally transferred his attention to his new doctor. He only moved his eyes over John's figure, not moving his head. After a few moments Sherlock spoke in a growly tone, taking his time on every word.

"The more important question, Dr. Watson, is how are _you_?" His dead eyes pierced through John's soul.

"I'm not here about myself, I'm here for you." John responded calmly. A typical attempt of the patient to shift the focus of the conversation onto something other than themselves. If they feel like there is too much focus on them, they get uncomfortable.

"Are you? That's not what the angle of your left eyebrow says." Sherlock smirked.

John didn't think he had heard that correctly. It was such an odd thing to say. "Sorry, my what?"

"Your left eyebrow. You think this job could open a doorway to worlds of possibilities-maybe a raise, promotion, even a girl?"

"Excuse me?"

"I suppose anything would be a step up from giving psych evaluations for the military, it's sort of a dull job, isn't it? But these things take time, so why would you be so eager right away-" Sherlock paused with the realization he had been looking for. "Ah…you think if you 'fixed' me, you'd gain quick and easy fame in the world of psychology." With his last phrase, Sherlock mocked John with slashing sarcasm.

John was stunned. Of course, he had a professional curiosity in the case of Sherlock Holmes. But everything Sherlock had said about why John was there was true. It was all spot on! But _how?_ The only thing Sherlock mentioned about him, that was obvious to anyone, was the way his eyebrow was positioned. But how could that tell a man anything except whether he was happy, angry, or frustrated? How could his inner thoughts, intentions, and background be put to words with only a glance from this curious man in restraints?

* * *

John was shaken, but Sherlock's words only reeled him in. Now he was more curious than ever about this fascinating soul.

"You seem surprised," said Sherlock with a slight smirk, the first expression John had seen on his face.

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"Well, with all of my _other _doctors," he emphasized the people who had left him with a certain distain. "Their amazement soon turned to anger. They didn't stay long."

"Did you want them to?"

"To what?"

"Did you want them to stay?"

"Not necessarily."

"So a part of you did. Why is that?"

Sherlock glared and shifted uncomfortably. "They tried to listen to me and here my side of the story." Sherlock's lips pursed in contempt. "_Tried._"

"What went wrong?"

Sherlock looked at John as if he had asked the most senseless question ever. "Well, they all thought I was crazy, that's what went wrong."

"Want to tell me your story?" John asked gently.

"Right, as if you will believe it."

"I have an open mind."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you have the whole thing in that file down there," he motioned to the folder John had left on the floor since they had started.

John shook his head. "I left it there for a reason. I want to hear everything in your own words." Sherlock seemed shocked by this. Apparently, no one else had been that considerate. "Wouldn't want anyone's bias getting in the way of what I can perceive for myself," John added. He had slightly lied: he did look at what the others had written as their diagnosis, but that was only to get a feel for the kind of patient he was looking after. Honestly, it didn't help at all. Almost every diagnosis was different.

"Dr. Watson, I-"

"John, please."

"John, I've told the story fifty-three times. Can't you just read it?" Sherlock pleaded.

John observed the heavy, hopeless look in Sherlock's eyes. They looked like a desert wasteland, oppressive grey sand drowning any color or life within them. "You wanted someone to listen to what you have to say, right?"

"No," Sherlock corrected, "I want someone to _believe_ what I have to say. For over a year, no one has."

"Give me a chance to change that."

Sherlock hesitated, but surrendered and began the story of how he ended up in that bright, buzzing cell.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! let me know if you like it so far!**


	3. Sherlock's Story

**In this chapter, the story will alternate between Sherlock talking to John in solitary and the actual happenings of the story Sherlock is telling. I'm hoping this will help you picture it in your mind? There will be a line break between flashbacks and the storytelling. Please let me know if you think it was effective!**

* * *

"Before I was in this mess, I was a private detective," Sherlock began. "I had solved so many cases that I've lost count. My success rate was through the roofs. Anyone and everyone knew that if the police just weren't working fast enough, Detective Sherlock Holmes was the man to go to. I solved so much of the police's work that, finally, someone noticed."

* * *

A few solid knocks echoed through the Baker Street apartments.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson came bustling into 221B. Sherlock lay on the couch, hands poised on his chin. "Sherlock, Lestrade is here to see you."

"Mm." A soft mumble was all the detective offered as reply.

"I'll just send him up." Mrs. Hudson sighed and descended the stairs, "What have you done now…"

A few moments later, Lestrade came up the stairs and stood in the doorway. He looked around the room, appall on his face. The flat Sherlock occupied was apparently more disorganized then Lestrade had pictured. Clearing his throat, Lestrade finally addressed the tall man laying silent on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

"Sherlock, you're going to have to come with me."

Sherlock shifted his gaze towards the other detective in the room. He looked Lestrade up and down, eyes darting about his figure. "What am I being accused of? Something to do with you, then?"

Lestrade wandered into the flat and started futzing with various items on the table. "We've known each other for a long time, Sherlock, and I don't want this to damage our relationship…"

"Relationship?" Sherlock questioned.

"Friendship, then," Lestrade clarified. "I don't want you to think I'm against you, but…"

"But what?" Sherlock's voice intensified. Lestrade paced over to the fireplace. He looked questioningly at the skull and touched it.

"Don't touch Billy," Sherlock snapped.

"What?"

"Don't touch him."

"Him? It's a skull. You have a sku-Sherlock why on earth do you have a human skull sitting on your mantelpiece?"

"Why not? He's a friend of mine."

"Just about the only one-" Lestrade mumbled. Sherlock pretended not to hear, but sank even deeper into the impression he had made on the couch.

"Why have you come?" Sherlock asked, "Is there another case? I just finished one, but I'm always open to another if it isn't boring." Sherlock, however, was aware there was not another case. And there wouldn't be for a long time.

* * *

"That's when Lestrade brought me to the Scotland Yard and explained the situation to me. I was being charged with fraud and embezzlement from the Scotland Yard."

"Wait, hold on," John interrupted for the first time. "Fraud and embezzlement? Whatever for?"

"I was just about to get there." Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed with humanity's ignorance.

"Sorry, carry on."

* * *

"Sherlock Holmes," Donovan spoke with disgust as Sherlock was dragged into the station for questioning.

"Donovan. Spent another night with Anderson, did we?" Sherlock said, smirking. "Why am I here?"

"You can't honestly be oblivious to why you're here. You, of all people, should have seen it coming." Donovan replied.

"I saw it coming, just not the reason behind it."

"Well that's what happens when you weren't behind it all in the first place. You can't figure it out."

"Whatever do you mean?"

Donovan looked at Lestrade who was guiding Sherlock towards the interrogation rooms. "Is he that daft?" Lestrade didn't answer and continued the hesitant march, his hand on Sherlock's arm.

* * *

"Lestrade informed me they had gotten copious anonymous phone calls telling them "Sherlock Holmes is a fraud". The callers told them I had been setting up the cases I had solved. Essentially I was accused of being the criminal and detective at the same time, for my personal gain."

"They couldn't prove it, correct?" John asked.

"Of course not. They could not take me in on the soul foundation of a few anonymous callers. The reason they brought me in was because I was apparently stealing all of the police's business. I thought people were allowed to run their own business, in my case a private detective agency, but according to them it was my fault there were hardly any cases to work on."

"If this were true that you were a fraud, why would you solve basically every case? The only thing Scotland Yard would be able to focus on would be what was going on right then. You'd bring the doom onto yourself."

"They didn't think of that. That's their problem, they just can't think. All they had was what was in front of them, basically nothing, seeing how I solved a great majority of their work for them, and the suspicious little idea planted into their minds by that scheming devil."

"Scheming devil? Hold on, I thought the callers were anonymous." John inquired.

"He was."

"He? So it was one caller? And you knew who he was?"

Sherlock sighed wearily. "That is why I'm here. They didn't believe what I was trying to tell them."

* * *

"I'm telling you, it's him. Only he could be this clever." Sherlock stated desperately.

"You've had yet to tell me who _him_ is. Our anonymous tippers are exactly that, _anonymous," _Lestrade tried to explain. "Even the call receivers don't know who they are. However you say you got to the information is beyond me. We scramble the lines-"

"I don't _know _it's him, I _feel _it_._"

"Well, sorry to tell you, Sherlock, but we can't run an entire investigation based on your feelings," Lestrade sneered. "They can, however, search your flat with a warrant. Sherlock, if they find anything that even hints to you being the murderer in any of the cases you've solved, there's nothing I can do for you. Just tell me if you're a fraud, Sherlock, will you do that for me?"

Sherlock leaned in so close that he nearly fell off his chair. He whispered coarsely, "It's Moriarty."

Lestrade sighed heavily, "Here we go again."

Sherlock's voice raised, "Jim Moriarty. He's been following me my whole life. He is out to ruin me, and mock me doing it. I assure you, Lestrade, I am no fraud. I make simple deductions and you know it. Why are you doubting me now? We need to find him!"

* * *

"Of course if I had simply submitted to not solving so many cases, I could have walked out of Scotland Yard and been working at this very moment. They found nothing at my flat, I'm still surprised he didn't plant anything. But I told them about Moriarty and-"

* * *

"Well?" Sherlock blurted when Lestrade came back into the room, "You found him right? Or at least a clue. We can track him down, prove it was him, it was _always_ him, lurking in the background. He's a criminal genius, my archenemy. He must be stopped-"

"_Sherlock._" Lestrade finally stopped Sherlock's babbling. "There's no record of a Jim Moriarty…_anywhere_."

* * *

"They did a full scan of birth records everywhere and didn't find one person by the name of Jim Moriarty. Neither by birth or by changed name. They were convinced it was all in my head." Sherlock let his head sink even more.

"Who is this Moriarty, then? Have you met him?" John asked his patient after a pause.

"Yes…"

* * *

"Staying alive is just so…staying. It's boring. Why not die?" Moriarty proposed. Sherlock was standing on the roof of a hospital with his nemesis Moriarty. He was trying to convince Sherlock to jump.

"What on earth would make me jump? A short man with a gun?"

Jim looked disappointed. He had obviously hoped Sherlock would share the same viewpoints. "No, not me. I would never get my hands dirty. If you don't jump, all the people you love will die," Moriarty smirked. Sherlock mirrored him.

"I love no one."

* * *

"Moriarty didn't realize that I was just like him, with nothing to lose. The only way he could have killed me then was by, in his own words, "getting his hands dirty". So he left me, and said that one day he would get me."

* * *

"Eventually, Sherlock, you'll have to find something, someone to hold on to in your painful, genius existence. And when you do, I'll be there to…_congratulate_ you."

* * *

"So why do you think he was after you this time? What was it you think he saw that you were holding on to?" John asked.

"That is something I still haven't figured out for certain. Perhaps it was the job I had obtained. After all, it has been a while since I had an encounter with him. I didn't love any job I landed and was never happy until I was doing what I was born to do."

"Hold on, when did you last see Moriarty?"

"On the roof, I told you."

"Yes, but how old where you?"

Sherlock hesitated. "I was eight."

"_Eight?_" John repeated. He liked to believe in his patient's stories. If he trusted them, they'd trust him. And even if there was possibility that they were lying, John would listen and believe everything they told him to be true. Besides, even if it wasn't real, it was real for the patient. Why shouldn't he listen? But in light of the new information, John found it hard to push away the doubts creeping into his mind. Sherlock caught sight of that weed of doubt beginning to grow in his doctor.

"I know, the other doctors think I'm making it up, seeing how that was the day…" Sherlock's voice faded. He looked as if he were kicking himself for mentioning it, whatever it was.

"That was the day what?"

"That was the day…my mother died." Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat and continued. "Moriarty…tried to convince me to jump. He said if I didn't, he'd kill everything I loved, and the only thing I loved then was my mother."

* * *

"It's you or your mother, your choice," Jim Moriarty said with a grin. Sherlock stared straight down to the pavement tens of stories below him. He took a deep breath and stuck his foot out, but something stopped him. His cell rang. His mother had given him a phone in case of emergency. Sherlock didn't know that the number was listed on his mother's emergency contacts.

Sherlock pulled it from his jacket pocket and answered the phone that was playing the ringtone _Staying Alive, _ironically. After a few words on the phone, Sherlock hung up and stepped off the ledge of the building. He turned to face a confused enemy.

"What, you want your mother to die?" What Moriarty didn't know was that his mother was already in intensive care and probably wouldn't have made it from the car accident, anyway.

"That was the hospital. My mother is dead." A single tear slid from Sherlock's deep green eyes. He stood there for some time, then smiled in grief. "You have nothing to take away from me."

Moriarty thought that over and bit his lip. "You may be right, but I'll get you one day. Know that I'll be watching you. I'll be overlooking everything you do. And when the moment is right, I'll take away all your happiness, in a single, heart wrenching snap of my fingers."

* * *

"And he disappeared. I haven't seen him since." Sherlock pursed his lips. "All the others think I made this story up to balance out my mother's death. The doctors, the police, even my own brother."

"Was your brother there when Moriarty tried to force your suicide?" John asked.

"No, he's too good to have any witnesses. No witnesses, no loose ends." Sherlock replied.

John pondered all of this. It was quite an elaborate story, how on Earth could he be making all of it up? But then, if he was setting up all the cases he'd solved, wouldn't he take the time to create a fool-proof story? _After all,_ John thought, _wouldn't an asylum be better than prison?_

"Sherlock, why did Moriarty come after you? Why not your brother? How did he even know who you were when you were so young?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed. "Earlier that day I had been solving a case that he was behind…"

"Wait, you were eight?" John said as half a question, half a statement.

"Yes." Sherlock confirmed. John looked at Sherlock in surprise. "What, I was bored."

"I see," John smiled in admiration. "So he came after who was trying to reveal him."

"Where's your notes? Aren't you going to label me and whatever it is you psychiatrists do?" Sherlock scowled.

"No, I am not."

Sherlock appeared indifferent, but John could sense his anxiousness. "Then…what? What are you making of all this? I may be able to deduce at the drop of a hat, but I can't read minds."

After a quiet moment, John replied, "I believe you."

* * *

**I hope this was satisfying for you! Review?**

**Thank you for reading!**


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